


Oral Fixation

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Drunkenness, First Kiss, M/M, Oblivious Stiles, POV Derek, Pining, Possessive Derek, Recreational Drug Use, Recreational Wolfsbane Use, Stiles Stilinski is a Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-11 03:51:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13516008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: This is just Stiles, part of the spastic flailing, too loyal, ridiculously human boy he can’t look away from--Derek has no idea what to do. There isn’t anything he can  do, except live with it.Stiles grins at him, mouth hanging open, eyes soft, and Derek sighs.Well. He’s lived with worst things.





	Oral Fixation

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know. I saw this [post ](https://gfdisterek.tumblr.com/post/170168793887/devildoll-bootysnorkel-helenish)on Tumblr and then I just...this happened.

The first time it happens it's the summer Stiles spends helping him look for Erica and Boyd. 

They’re in a diner, and Stiles looks exhausted--they’d spent four hours driving to Redding and back, chasing a lead that ended up a dead end--and Derek was about to tell him to get some sleep when a clatter yanked him out of his introspective concern. The kid carrying their food was standing stock still next to their table, burgers and fries a mess on the floor at his feet.

And he was staring. 

Derek followed his gaze and--

Oh. 

Stiles was peering up at Isaac from under his lashes, pretty pink lips wrapped around his straw. 

He wasn't even drinking. Just holding the thing there, rolling it around almost lazily as a smile spread across his face. 

The server inhaled sharply. 

“Our food,” Derek snapped, leaning over to jerk Stiles drink from him. 

His mouth fell open, a wet, outraged pink circle perfect for-- 

The server whimpered and fled. 

** 

It happens again. Often enough that Derek can’t dismiss it. 

A glazed look at the ice cream shop Stiles drags him to after steering a troll out of the Preserve. 

The gas station attendant's wide-eyed stare, fixed on Stiles as he clenches a bag of between his lips and steers the pack toward the counter. 

The way other people watch him when he’s at the library, that damn pen of his caught between pursed lips, mouthing along as he reads. 

It’s not all the time. But it seems like it happens every time Derek starts to relax, starts to forget just how much he wants to stare too. 

Because of  _ course  _ it does. 

Fuck his whole life. 

**

The thing is--he’s pretty sure Stiles is doing it on purpose. 

No, he’s thought about this. When things are quiet in Beacon Hills and he’s not too busy keeping everyone from dying--he’s actually thought about it. 

And it  _ has  _ to be on purpose. There isn’t any other reason for Stiles to constantly have something in his mouth. For his lips to be shiny and pink and fucking distracting all the time. 

And it infuriates him because Stiles isn’t just Scott’s annoying friend anymore--if Derek is honest, he thinks Stiles was never just Scott’s annoying friend. 

They’re friends now. There is respect and admiration between them that lingers unspoken, but  _ there _ . 

And Stiles is  _ smart _ , he’s scary smart, give Peter a run for his money smart, not the cold factual brilliance that Lydia was, but the kind of intuitive leaps of logic and sense that made left the rest of the pack in the dust and made Derek want to howl with pride. 

So he had to  _ know _ . 

He had to know exactly what it did, when he sat pressed against Derek’s side on the couch and nibbled at his hoodie strings. When he bit his lip in concentration while researching. When he absently licked a lollipop after stopping by the bank, and Derek watched, stunned and strung out with the need to taste him. 

He had to know. 

But then. Derek is at the Stilinski house, and John drags out some dusty photo albums. Derek sits there and watches Stiles grow up in snapshots, and he realizes--it’s not intentional. 

“Huh,” Derek says, looking at a picture of a miniature Stiles and gap-toothed Scott, grinning at the camera while Stiles chases his popsicle with a bright red tongue and wide wet lips.

**

So he doesn’t know. 

Derek isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not, because if he  _ knew _ and was just fucking with Derek--well, he knew what to do with that. He knew how to handle it, how to tease and push and make Stiles flush with embarrassment with a judgmental eyebrow and take it back to their low-level UST. 

(Erica taught him that term and he hates it but it kinda fits them perfectly. Fucking of course it does.)

But since he doesn’t know--since this is just  _ Stiles _ , part of the spastic flailing, too loyal, ridiculously human boy he can’t look away from--Derek has no idea what to do. There isn’t anything he  _ can  _  do, except live with it. 

Stiles grins at him, mouth hanging open, eyes soft, and Derek sighs. 

Well. He’s lived with worst things. 

**

The thing is. He gets used to it. 

Sometimes--more often than he likes to admit--he gets snagged mid thought by a quick pink tongue licking over plush lips. Sometimes he sits across from Stiles and curses the existence of straws. Sometimes his eyes glaze and mind dips dangerous places. Contemplates what those lips would taste like--cherry and ink, because he’s constantly chewing pens and he stole that damn lip gloss from Lydia and that was both the worst and best thing to happen to Derek in January--or how they’d feel, wrapped around his cock. 

He usually bolts, when he starts thinking that, because the other wolves can smell it. But sometimes.

Sometimes. He wakes up and Stiles is asleep next to him, that deep sleep that nothing can get through, and his mouth is soft and lax, and Derek forces himself not to reach for his cock, not to jerk off watching those  _ fucking lips _ . 

He gets used to it. Or something like it. 

**

It’s almost funny. 

There’s things about being in a pack that you get used to. Quirks about them, things you learn to move around. 

Allison will always smell, faintly, of wolfsbane and ash. 

Lydia will never come to training in practical shoes. 

Isaac will get his heartbroken once a month and spend two days on his couch sulking and pining. 

Scott will always take ten minutes longer than he should to get ready and to understand a plan. 

Erica will make everything dirty and sexual, Peter will never be immediately trustworthy, Boyd will burn dinner. 

Stiles will distract random strangers by licking his damn lips. 

So Derek learns how to live around it--ignore the wolfsbane when scenting Allison, keep sneakers in his car for Lydia, and chocolate ice cream in the freezer for Isaac. He pads the time Scott is supposed to be somewhere and lets Stiles explain any plan they have because some headaches he doesn’t need. He words things carefully when talking to Erica, makes Stiles talk him through everything Peter could be plotting and never leaves Boyd alone with dinner. 

And he gives the strangers who stare at Stiles in that dazed familiar way he’s grown used to a sympathetic smile, steers the oblivious younger boy around them and removes anything from the vicinity of his mouth because he’s goddamn menace. 

Stiles is nibbling on his finger and glaring at slabs of ribs and Geoff Jones sighs, this tortured noise that Derek understands too well, and starts wrapping up all five slabs. “Half price, Stiles.” 

Stiles is licking his ice cream, and Derek is steering him along, giving consoling smiles to the bevy of women coming out of the yoga studio as Stiles rants about the patriarchy and the unfairness of beauty as a social construct. 

Stiles hovering over his coffee, lips parted in bliss and flushed a darker pink by the heat, and the barista murmurs a low curse. “That can’t be legal,” she whispers. 

“It is,” Derek says, almost petulantly, and smiles innocently when Stiles blinks at him. 

** 

Sometimes he thinks he’s immune. That he’s over it. That Stiles and his gorgeous fucking mouth is not a thing that could drive him to his knees. 

But then there were moments like this, on Stiles nineteenth birthday, when Derek was just a little drunk on wolfsbane laced beer and Stiles was drunk and affectionate, and he couldn’t look away. 

He couldn’t look away from the rhythmic sway of his hips as he danced with Allison and Lydia, while Erica ground against him in a dirty parody of sex until Stiles fell away laughing, mouth wide and open. 

He couldn’t look away as Stiles pressed wet lips to Scott’s neck, layering his scent deeper on the wolf. 

He couldn’t look away when Stiles tipped the tequila bottle to his lips, his long neck a perfect stretch as he swallowed twice, three times. 

He couldn’t look away when Lydia sprawled across his coffee table and Stiles licked salt from her pale belly and picked a lime from her mouth with careful teeth before she kissed him. 

He  _ needed _ to look away and he fucking couldn’t. Stiles stared back and smiled, wide and gorgeous, a smile just for him. 

**

“Smoke with me.” 

Derek blinks at Stiles. 

It is the morning after Stiles party, and the loft is empty, except for them. It isn’t unusual, but after feeling so raw and exposed the night before, Derek is a little off balanced. 

And Stiles is smiling at him, golden eyes bright, a joint in his hands and Derek--

“Ok.” Derek says, without letting himself second guess it. 

He fees too vulnerable, but Stiles is watching him, bright and hopeful. 

His mouth hangs open--why can the idiot never close his fucking mouth?--as he lights the joint and he licks his lips, quick and thoughtless before he brings it up. 

Pale pink wraps around the twisted white end and his cheeks hollow a little as he pulls on it, his lips compressing  into a thin line as he closes his eyes, and--

“Fuck,” Derek murmurs. 

Stiles’ eyes flick open and he realizes it a second too late, while he’s still watching Stiles’ mouth. 

“You’re staring,” Stiles murmurs and Derek nods, because what the fuck is the point of denying it?

Derek has made a hobby of staring at Stiles’ mouth. 

Stiles’ eyes go wide and his lips twist in a smile, wide and goofy, none of the easy flirting Stiles gives to everyone he’s ever met. 

“Derek,” he whispers and then. 

Oh. 

_ Oh.  _

Derek has watched this boy, watched his gorgeous mouth, for years. Has dreamt of them, soft against his, bitten and bruised, swollen and stretched around his cock--has seen them do truly pornographic things to straws and fingers and food and suckers, and none of that prepares him for the first press of Stiles’ lips against his own. 

They’re soft, softer than Derek thought possible, a sweet plush give under Derek’s teeth, under his demanding push. Hands twist into his hair and Stiles makes a broken noise in his throat before he swings into Derek’s lap and tilts his head, and that first needy sweet taste goes dirty and wet in less than a heartbeat. 

Stiles licks into his mouth, tongue quick and clever, and Derek smells the smoke heavy taste of weed and the cut of mint under that, and Stiles--clean and copper bright and  _ him. _

Derek  _ whines _ and Stiles grinds down, hissing, “Christ, Derek, you can’t  _ sound _ like that.” 

Stiles’ lips skim down his jaw, open and nipping and soft, and Derek’s hands settle on the narrow hips he’s seen dancing and always wanted to hold. 

“Gonna take my time with you, sweetheart,” Stiles pants, tracing the shell of his ear with the tip of his tongue. “Gonna take you apart with just my mouth.” 

Derek ruts up against him, and pants, “Stiles.” 

“Want to,” Stiles says, insistent, “Want you to fuck my mouth, want you to come in my mouth,  _ Derek _ , wanna taste you when you leave.” 

Derek’s hands tighten around him and drags Stiles head up, bites at his lips and snarls, “Not gonna leave you, baby. Never gonna leave.” 

Stiles’ mouth falls open, soft and shocked as his hips stutter up and he comes, silent and perfect. Derek slides his thumb over his lips, and almost unconsciously, his pink tongue darts out, catches the pad of his finger, and bites down. 

Derek drags him close and kisses him, brutally hard as he sucks on Stiles’ tongue and came, the taste of the boy warm and heavy on his tongue. 

**

They spent the weekend in bed, and Derek got to feel, finally, what Stiles’ lips felt like stretched around his cock. 

It was better than he imagine it would be. 

**

The next time they are out, the server at the diner watches Stiles nibbling on his pinkie, eyes glazed and desperate.

He smiles, a sympathetic  _ I feel ya.  _ And then he tilts Stiles to him, and kisses him, wet and deep and demanding, a low growl and nip of teeth to the gliding lips, tongue licking into the young man’s mouth. 

The servers sputters a little as he retreats and Stiles pulls away to smile at him, smile goofy and all his, lips wet and swollen. 

Derek thinks it’s the favorite way for Stiles’ lips to look. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me on [Tumblr](areiton.tumblr.com)! I flail about Hoechlin and ramble about writing and I like new people. <3


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